April 1811
by Nimbus Llewelyn
Summary: Wellesley reachs the nasty conclusion that he needs our favourite convicted traitor to break the defences of Badajoz. Disclaimer: I only own my OCs. Nothing else. Please Read and Review. Now officially deader than disco. Up for adoption.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing**

_April 1811_

General Arthur Wellesley surveyed the fortified town of Badajoz. It was strong and he wasn't sure if he could take it with the forces currently at his disposal. It was strong and the French had placed even more AD (anti-dragon) guns around the wall since the last scout report the previous autumn. This meant that a Longwing formation couldn't get close enough to do damage, and if they could have done they would have faced at least 7 top rank dragon formations. Also he had renegade Spanish partisans to worry about, and who were loyal only for a given value of loyal. He sighed. He wished that damned fire breather hadn't flown off to join the transport to Australia nearly three years ago. He had flown into a truly apoplectic rage and nearly broken all the promises he had made about dragon equality (which was gathering pace with a rumour of dragon representatives in Parliament!) until Admiral Jane Roland reminded him calmly, not batting an eyelid, that many men had done similar things and, that in all likelihood, the Corps would mutiny if he broke the promises. Her tone had indicated she would lead the mutineers in such a case of affairs.

He sighed and walked back into the staff tent and asked one of his aides for information on all the dragons in service in other countries that were not desperately needed militarily. He had a feeling he would need every dragon he could get.

_May 10th 1811_

"Well?"

The aide swallowed and looked at the bottom two files. They were both extraodinarily touchy issues around the general due to the mysterious event surrounding Napoleons invasion. He put the files on Wellesley's desk and stepped back, positioning himeslf next to the entrance. Wellesly glanced up at the files while drafting a letter to whitehal. "Thank you very much, you may go now. The aide stepped out of the tent then waited. He winced as suddenly the litany of things like 'yes', 'no', 'hmm' and other such things was replaced by an arctic silence. The aide who knew Wellesley well, waited ten seconds, then stepped out the tent and counted to three. On three, the remnants of Wellesley's dinner (mutton, again) came flying out after him.

_May 12__th__ 1811_

The aide (Sir Andrew of Cornwall from now on) poked his head round the entrance to the tent slowly. Wellesley was looking at _those_ two files. "Send for both of them."

"Sir?"

"Send for them **now, **Sir Andrew." The harmonics of command in Wellesleys voice were unmistakeable.

"Yes sir." Answered Sir Andrew backing out quickly.

"Also, pray do look into the file on their offspring, Artemis*. The file is remarkably lacking in information on her capabilities."

Sir Andrew hurried out of the tent, unnerved by the frighteningly composed and calm Wellesley. He, like everyone else, had heard the rumours concerning the invasion by Napoleon. They had detailed little, except that Wellesley had ordered the slaughter of the French scavenging parties which was carried out by the exiled William Laurence, and his dragon Temeraire. Apparently, Captain Laurence had sent a fairly innocuous field report which was considered by the peer (Wellesley's nickname) to be blackmail. He also let his wonder about the talents of the offspring of a Celestial and a Kazilik. Unusual, most likely, destructive, certainly.

*Artemis is mainly a female name of the Greek goddess of hunting.


	2. Chapter 2: Enter Laurence

_November 21__st__ 1811 _

Captain William Laurence sat in the shade, mopping his brow with a handkerchief that was steadily becoming more and more rigid with dirt and sweat, as time went by. At this moment he thought it vaguely resembled a portion of a pale wooden shield. Well, he mused, that is something else to deal with when we reach Sydney. He had been in Australia for over 3 ½ years now, and he still couldn't stand the terrible heat, particularly at a time of year which he associated with ice, blizzards and snow so deep you could drop a Winchester (albeit a small one) and not notice. The scene that now met his eyes was one of short wrinkled trees and bushes, dust and Temeraire eating a large, roasted, kangaroo. He closed his eyes and thought back to their latest mission, hunting bush rangers, the damned brought back to life almost, cruel and murderous, hunting the aborigines for sport, and toturing them (on which grounds Temeraire dispatched them with extreme gusto, possibly enacting what he would have enjoyed doing to slavers), much like the local aristocrats. What was the real difference between those who had moved here for pleasure and who indulged in the exact same activities, as if the aborigines were foxes? He wondered. Rank, social standing and precious little else, he answered himself.

"Sir? All you all right sir?" he emerged from his reverie, to the not at all displeasing sight of Emily Roland bending over him looking worried.

"What? Oh, nothing Emily." His use of her first name garnered rather more comment then was actually necessary, even somewhere as short of gossip topics as Australia, and at the age of 16, she was growing into a fine young woman. He cast his back to an event 6 months previously. A convict had escaped from a poorly designed holding cell in a small recently built town and attempted to press his suit on Emily. Before Laurence had had a chance to intervene, she had kneed the man in the privates hard enough to make every male spectator wince and cross their legs, punched him in the throat then led him back to a more secure cell at gun point. She returned to an ovation from all present, which she had acknowledged with a small blush and a smile.

"Anyway, we had better return to Sydney, before they believe we have run off. Davies, pray could you fetch the other members of the crew and bid Temeraire to finish his lunch with all haste." The young runner, recruited from a young colonial family who had one son too many. However he was intelligent, eager to learn and uniquely, almost entirely unafraid of dragons. His one fault if you counted it as such was an originally extremely thick Irish accent, which was now merely noticeable due to the tutelage of the jovial 3/4 Irish, 1/4 Scottish First Lieutenant Eoin McDermott, who had greeted Laurence on arrival in Australia with a strong handshake and the words "Now, what would a well to do Sassenach gentleman like yourself want to do with an honest Irishman like me, sir?" While Laurence had been too surprised to utter more than a polite greeting, the Celt had moved on charming the rest of the crew and briefly speaking earnestly to Temeraire on the subject of oppression ("we Celts have had more than our fair share of oppression you know"). The only major problem, apart from his unusual degree of informality, which raised eyebrows even among the notoriously informal aviator society, with Lieutenant McDermott was that being an inch taller than Laurence himself at 6'2, and 23 with black curly hair and mischievous pale blue eyes and a ready smile, he drew the gazes of more than a few of the unattached women in and around the Sydney covert like moths to a candle. Laurence had learned to live with this last fact by dint of getting Emily to drag the seemingly oblivious man away whenever other men's scowls deepened, eyes narrowed and knuckles began to go white. He was a good and efficient officer, who should by rights have been a successful officer in England but wasn't due to being too Irish and informal for the Admiralty's liking.

The man himself had helped round up the crew and had them strapped in when Laurence was lifted up by Temeraire into the harness.

"Are you ready Laurence?"

"Yes my dear." and with that they took off towards Sydney.


	3. Chapter 3

_The same time (at night) , 10 miles from Badajoz_

The Duke of Wellington, Arthur Wellesley was to anybody watching, calm, and collected and totally in control. Much as he disliked the idea, he was aware of the fact that he did badly need the deadly power of a Kazilik and a Celestial to clear the path for the land army, because at that moment in time they were camped 4 miles out from the city and absolutely bugger all. As he reached the sentry post, the surprised sentry hurriedly snapped to attention, rigid with terror. The Peer, as he was known, was a good leader, but punished indiscipline with an iron fist. Said iron fisted leader acknowledged the sentry's salute with a curt nod and marched back into the main camp, muscles taut with tension. The dragon Artemis was landing tonight and he wanted to see whether she was more like her mother or her father in character. He wondered which personality type caused more trouble, and decided it was a deadheat. According to the file, in appearance she was much like her mother long, and sinuous with steam issuing from her body. Like her father, she had the trademark Celestial ruff around her head. Her skin was black with long streaks of red, particularly on the wings. She reputedly managed to hover and produce shockwaves somehow augmented by fire, either burning or smashing all opposition in one roar. This last ability had the breeders dancing jigs and the experts wondering how it was physically possible. This did not worry Wellesley, unduly. He had fought the now thought to be extinct miniature Naga dragons (weighing in at courier weight) in India, which had the ability to poison water with their breath leaving it indistinguishable from any other water, but that one drop of poisoned water killed anything up to and including a Regal copper. Not many dragons scared him. Except for one. Lien, the white Celestial. Her abilities and grace, not to mention a natural ability to blend in with the clouds gave a new terror to convoy captains, troop carriers and dragon transport. People were beginning to jump everytime they saw a vaguely dragon shaped cloud.

He turned to the sound of wings beating above. It was Artemis, who hovered above.

"Allen, may we land now, and who is that man on the ground?" Wellesley groaned inwardly, she sounded _exactly_ like her father. He shook himself, and replied in a frigid voice that would have made even Tharkay raise his eyebrows, "The Duke of Wellington, your new commanding officer." Wellesley heard with more than a hint of satisfaction, Captain Allen blanch at this.

"Artemis, land now please." Wellesley inwardly commended the man on not letting his voice tremble in the least.

"Who is the Duke of Wellington Allen?"

"He, is me" came the irritable reply from Wellesley.

"Now get down here before half the French army decides to investigate."

He watched as the young dragon landed gently and looked at him curiously. He stared right back, before Artemis broke off blinking, and inquired of Allen, whose face had gone milk white, "Are all Generals like this? Oh I say, Allen are you all right?" The man in question was shivering badly.

At this point Wellesley took pity on him and said "You will be debriefed by Admiral Roland at the far end of the camp."

With noticeable relief Captain Allen nodded hurriedly then jumped aboard Artemis, who took off with what Wellesley judged as unusual haste.

He smiled with satisfaction.

_Sydney, November 22__nd__ 1811_

Laurence leaped off of Temeraire's back as soon as they landed in the surprisingly luxurious Sydney covert. "Why Laurence, where are you going?" asked a puzzled Temeraire.

"To hand in my report to Admiral Lambert, we are 10 hours late", was the faint reply, as Laurence bid fair to reach hitherto impossible speeds on foot as he sprinted to the Admirals office.

"Sorry....I...Am...Late ... Admiral." Laurence wheezed as he smashed through the Admirals door into his office.

"Oh, don't worry old chap, or rather do worry." The Admiral was 49 years old and given to amusement derived from such comments.

"Sir?"

"You had better hurry down to the docks; I have a dispatch saying you are to return to Europe immediately, along with that damn firebreather. Wellington has found a city he can't squash in Spain and has finally admitted he needs you and that damned Jacobin dragon of yours, along with the firebreather, whatshername." It was a character quirk of the Admirals that he easily forgot names, especially those of dragons and subordinates.

"...." Laurence stood dumbfounded. He was going back to fight in Europe!

"Well, don't just stand there, Wellesley has said that : 'If you knock the French out of Iberia then I might consider a pardon'. Vamoose!"

Laurence, not sure of what else to do, saluted, and then ran even faster back to where Temeraire's harness was being removed. "Stop removing the harness, for God's sake stop!"

"Why, Laurence?" Queried the perplexed McDermott, jumping down from the top end of the harness.

"We have to fly down to the docks immediately! Ladies and gentleman, we are returning to Europe to fight!" Laurence glanced at the sea in the distance. "You have to tell Granby's crew the same news."

"Yes sir!" cried the runner, who was practically hyperventilating with joy as he sped off.

On board the _Allegiance_, which was picking them up along with Leo, a thankfully young Regal copper, who had hatched earlier that year and thus only took up a quarter of the dragon deck, neatly sandwiched between Temeraire and Iskierka who were bickering. Again. Leo's captain, Ian Cooper was sitting next to him, massaging the young dragons self esteem, as for the first time Leo was among dragons larger than him, having grown up in the Perth covert among Couriers.

Granby walked over to him after a futile attempt to stop Temeraire and Iskierka bickering.

"I wonder what Wellesley wants us for this time."

"Admiral Lambert said Wellesley couldn't storm some city in Spain, Badajoz I think, without our help."

"It should be interesting, then." Said Granby with more than a trace of irony.

**N.B: Tharkay has already been recalled.**


	4. Chapter 4

_January 12__th__ 1812_

It was just after the crossing the line ceremony, conducted with usual mildly fiendish enjoyment on the part of whoever was playing Badger Bag. Laurence looked around. The aviators were thoroughly enjoying themselves and mingling well with the sailors, Emily was nursing some grog in a corner, attempting to stare it into oblivion, and Granby was watching the carousing, with a fair degree of drunken interest, led by Lieutenant McDermott who was singing extremely rude and thankfully very Irish songs at the top of his voice. Laurence had asked Davies what the words meant and had gone an interesting, and possibly unique, shade of crimson when he found out, which Temeraire had remarked on in a concerned manner ("Laurence, you have gone very red. Are you not well?"). Oh Dear, Laurence thought, as he saw Granby and Captain Cooper had joined in the singing, and from somewhere McDermott had produced a violin and began to play a fast reel which got all the sailors dancing, most of them out of tempo.

Emily watched Laurence from across the deck, sitting directly below Temeraire and Iskierka, the latter making the former teach her what the Gaelic songs meant, and was quite literally roaring with laughter which thankfully did not put off the sailors unduly, most of whom were far too drunk to notice, much less care, since Temeraire had picked up some Gaelic from McDermott. She sighed and sipped some more grog, to steel herself for what she intended to do next. She put her cup of grog in the hands of a completely drunk sailor, who mumbled "much obliged ma'am" and went back to sleep, stood up and immediately had to sidestep a somewhat drunk McDermott, and as she walked towards Laurence, who was watching the celebrations with an amused half smile on his face, she thought she heard Iskierka and Temeraire arguing "I bet you your talon sheathes for a month against anything of mine that she does."

"Fine, I agree, but she won't though."

"Just you wait and see..."

And the half smile remained as she walked up to him and said, "Sir?"

"Yes Emily? Can I do anything for you?"

"Yes sir. This." With that she kissed him full on the mouth.

At first his eyes widened with surprise, and then settled down as he began to enjoy it.

They kissed passionately for 30 seconds, before being interrupted by a drunken cheer from McDermott, who then cried "Three cheers for the Captain and Lieutenant Roland! Hip-Hic!-hooray! Hip-Hic!-hooray! Hip-Hic!-hooray!"

"Enjoy that sir?" asked Emily, with a wicked grin on her face.

"Well...Yes, I suppose." replied the utterly shell-shocked Laurence with a small smile.

From above he heard through a cheerful fog of emotions, Iskierka crowing triumphantly "Hah! Told you they would! You owe me the loan of your talon sheathes for a month now! Fetch, loser!"

"All right, don't rub it in" muttered Temeraire, nodding to Davies who climbed down from a large barrel which he had scrambled onto in order to achieve a better view of proceedings, from which he and had been in the process of asking the, by now, cheerfully out of it McDermott, what exactly Laurence and Emily had been doing with naive curiousity, promptly went to fetch them from Laurence's cabin.

**Any wishing to know the song sung Lieutenant McDermott ask me via PM. The song he was playing on the violin was Granuailes dance, sung by the band Celtic Woman (Yes, I know they wouldn't have been around at the time, but hey.)**


	5. Chapter 5: Curiosity hurts

_May 15__th __1812_

Laurence sat back and reflected on the long sea voyage, which had mostly been uneventful with the exception of Emily kicking McDermott after one rude Irish love song too many, and one of the young midshipmen narrowly avoiding being eaten by a mako shark, which was briefly, very surprised, as it was gleefully flame grilled in mid air by Iskierka, who was glad to be able to burn _something_ at last. This caused much consternation among all concerned, including the late shark, and the crew were not used to having smoking dead sharks falling among them as they worked on deck. The officers were pale with terror as they saw how close the sail had been too going up like a torch, and Temeraire was rudely disturbed from a previously peaceful afternoon nap when the shark landed on his nose, still burning. At this Temeraire roared in pain and surpise, and the roar had enough of the divine wind to have the merciful effect of sending the shark flying overboard. Laurence had had to calm him, and persuade him to stick his scorched nose in the sea. After he recovered a few days later, Temeraire renewed his habit of fishing, which saved a lot of effort on the part of the crew who were reluctant to fish for the appetite of a large heavy weight and now merely for their own provender. However, they did not lie idle, as they were directed by Gong-Su to find stalls which sold lemons, soya beans and other culinary necessities for cooking the fish, at markets whenever they made landfall.

Once they found one, they reported back to Gong Su, who dragged Lieutenant McDermott along, mostly to pull rank on the odd particularly recalcitrant stall holder. It wasn't very likely that you would find spice traders in the islands of the Iberian peninsula, in the vague region of the Mediterranean (bad news like Gong Su travelled fast and surprisingly) afterwards who did _not_ cower behind their stall when a Gong-Su or McDermott lookalike walked past. He and Emily had spent more time together, but not until one awkward episode when Emily woke up the next morning after the kiss, still slightly drunk, stumbled out into the corridor leading to steps to the deck, then replayed the events of the previous night which proved to be a most effective method of achieving instant sobriety and her expression change was noted by a variety of hung over but amused sailors, who were chuckling under their collective breath until she swept them with a razor edged glare, and stalked onto the deck.

She took a deep breath and strode over to where Laurence was sunning himself against Temeraire.

"Sir, may I speak to you?" She asked quietly (not timidly, dear reader, because could you imagine Emily being timid? Thought not.)

"Yes, Emily?" he asked warily, as he walked over to where she was standing.

"I am sorry about last night, but I was drunk and... I did enjoy it so...sir."

"It is not a crime to enjoy an...intimate moment, and please, call me Laurence" he replied with only a short pause. Meanwhile he was mind was full of thoughts, all clamouring to be heard. Chief among them were 'She is too young for you! Direct her to someone else!' and 'It would not be gentlemanly or chivalrous to do it!', these were almost immediately squashed by another thought saying, 'Yes she maybe young, but she is hardly unwilling, and you could look at it another way: It would be ungentlemanly _not _to satisfy her desires.' Laurence found his libido frantically agreeing with this last thought,interjecting, 'You haven't had a woman for _years_! Give yourself a bit of fun for once. Besides she is bound to be more energetic than her mother, and I am sure you remember how much fun she was...'

He was startled out of this internal arguement in which half his brain was brow beating the other half. He was painfully aware of the fact that his face was going an unusual shade of crimson, and that his breeches were swelling alarmingly. What was worse was that Emily was looking down at the sweeling breeches with a half amused, half _hungry_ look on her beautiful face.

"Laurence, may I ask you another question?"

"Yes, Emily."

"Laurence, do you want me? Because," she said, glancing at his breeches with a cheeky smile, "You certainly look like you do."

Laurence mentally reeled back. He certainly hadn't expected that, even in his current state of arousal. Or perhaps I should have, he thought wryly, both she and her mother never went in for subtlety. Meanwhile neither he nor she noticed Temeraire open his eyes, no longer bothering to pretend drowsiness, and Iskierka had displaced an indignantly squawking Leo in order to obtain a better view.

"Well...I have to say..." He nervously tugged at his neckcloth.(1) It was very _warm_ all of a sudden.

"Yes?" she inquired expectantly.

"I have to say that... Oh dear Lord, I want you Emily."

"Well in that case we could retire...to _your_ cabin." A wicked grin had appeared on Emily's visage, fast replacing the look of innocent curiousity.

"Umm...." Having got thus far, his impatient libido was damned if it was going to stop here, and was desperately attempting to get him over this last hurdle

"Oh come on" She said, making the decision and with that dragged him unresistingly below deck, towards his cabin, which just happened to have a decent sized window, just below the dragon deck in fact...

_5 minutes later_

As Emily and Laurence retired below, and were..._enjoying_ themselves shall we say, Temeraire, reasoning that he could finally learn the mysterious manner in which humans made eggs, with unknowing visual aids, quickly worked out which window belonged to Laurence, and bent over the side cautiously, after several tries, reaching the optimum position. However it was not the optimum position when Iskierka was trying to see as well.

As the two had a whispered argument consisting of one theme, to whit, "I can't see, get off me!"

Leo called out curiously, "what are you looking at?"

The unequivocal reply was "You are too young". With that Leo grumbled and went back to sleep, saying something like "not fair, just because I'm small".

After another 5 minutes passed, and Temeraire inquired thoughtfully of Iskierka, "Do you think they normally make this much _noise_?"

"Who is 'they', and what noise are they making?" came the cheerful Irish brogue of Lieutenant McDermott.

"It would be best if you saw yourself" said Temeraire, and without further ado lowered the surprised celt down to window level for 30 seconds.

When Temeraire brought him back up, he had an expression of deep cogitation on his face.

"Well, is that how it is normally done?" inquired Iskierka impatiently after a minute of silence.

"I think it's best to say that they...have their own _unique_ style." The thoughtful reply eventually came.

"If you'll excuse me." He said with a grin of wicked anticipation spreading across his face.

"What was that about?" Iskierka demanded, but Temeraire silenced her, guessing what would happen next.

Soon, they heard a sound, not unlike someone opening a door and saying something that they couldn't quite catch, "Wahey!" it sounded like. They did however catch Emily's scream of embarrassment, shock and rage, mingled with a variety of extremely choice swearwords, and a yell of pain from McDermott and other similar cries suggesting he had not been alone in his mischief, and his suffering, who had been kicked very, very, very hard in the privates, and Laurence's scandalised cry of, "Emily!"

They then saw an extremely pained McDermott crawl slowly up the steps wheezing, then collapse on the deck in front of them.

After a moment of deep reflection, Temeraire turned to Iskierka and said, "Emily is very good at kicking people isn't she?"


	6. Chapter 6 teaser

_June 22__nd__ 1812 _

Temeraire had spent the last month and a quarter watching Emily carefully. She had been perfectly well, not throwing up at all, and had displayed none of the outward signs which he associated with pregnancy which he had learned to spot during Harcourt's gravidity, and she didn't seem at all nervous or shifty, and she and Laurence retired fairly regularly to his cabin, so he eventually concluded that she must be as good at picking her moments as her mother was. He watched her as she came up on deck to take the air, pretending to be dozing, so she would not be mildly unnerved by his constant staring at her. He shifted his gaze across to a group of 12 sailors, or more accurately pressed landsmen who were off duty. He had learned to read human expressions very well, and he judged that they were leering in a most unpleasant way at Emily. Temeraire growled very quietly in an intimidating manner, which worked very well in cases when a prisoner needed to be terrified into obedience, and it was just loud enough for the sailors to hear him, and as they looked across, he pretended to yawn, showing his teeth to their best effect, and then glared balefully at them. They all scurried below deck, except for one who indicated Emily with his head, then winked in a manner that looked friendly, but had a sinister undertone that made Temeraire very uneasy indeed.

Casting his worries aside for the time being, he settled into a genuinely deep sleep as he heard what sounded like Laurence and Riley arguing at the tops of their voices. This meant that he was completely unable to deal with what happened next.

Earlier on, Laurence had been asked to speak Riley by one of the Captains subordinates, so he strode with all haste to Riley's cabin. As he was shown in he saw Riley signing something then passing it to an assistant.

He looked up and saw Laurence, and said "Ah Laurence, just the man I wanted to speak to."

Laurence frowned a little bit. This was slightly out of character for Riley.


	7. Chapter 6 full

_June 22__nd__ 1812_

Temeraire had spent the last month and a quarter watching Emily carefully. She had been perfectly well, not throwing up at all, and had displayed none of the outward signs which he associated with pregnancy which he had learned to spot during Harcourt's gravidity, and she didn't seem at all nervous or shifty, and she and Laurence retired fairly regularly to his cabin, so he eventually concluded that she must be as good at picking her moments as her mother was. He watched her as she came up on deck to take the air, pretending to be dozing, so she would not be mildly unnerved by his constant staring at her. He shifted his gaze across to a group of 12 sailors, or more accurately pressed landsmen who were off duty. He had learned to read human expressions very well, and he judged that they were leering in a most unpleasant way at Emily. Temeraire growled very quietly in an intimidating manner, which worked very well in cases when a prisoner needed to be terrified into obedience, and it was just loud enough for the sailors to hear him, and as they looked across, he pretended to yawn, showing his teeth to their best effect, and then glared balefully at them. They all scurried below deck, except for one who indicated Emily with his head, then winked in a manner that looked friendly, but had a sinister undertone that made Temeraire very uneasy indeed.

Casting his worries aside for the time being, he settled into a genuinely deep sleep as he heard what sounded like Laurence and Riley arguing at the tops of their voices. This meant that he was completely unable to deal with what happened next.

Earlier on, Laurence had been asked to speak Riley by one of the Captains subordinates, so he strode with all haste to Riley's cabin. As he was shown in he saw Riley signing something then passing it to an assistant.

He looked up and saw Laurence, and said "Ah Laurence, just the man I wanted to speak to."

Laurence frowned a little bit. This was slightly out of character for Riley. "You wanted to speak to me, sir?"

"Oh, please don't go calling me sir, we both know Wellesley will restore your rank at least temporarily, and for Lords sake, we have known each other for years and you commanded me for most of them, so I think we can dispense with the sir." Riley said irritably.

"Anyway let's get down to business. I have called you here this morning to speak to you about your conduct around young Miss Roland."

"Her rank is that of Lieutenant, and, _Tom_, she has been flying since before she could walk, and serving in heavy action since the age of 9, so I wager she knows at least as much of battle as you or I." This temporarily stunned Riley, but he recovered his poise quickly, like a gyroscope that has been knocked off balance.

"Indeed she has, and if I may put this in blunt speech, do you normally shag your subordinates in the aerial corps?" This curious inquiry, edged with steel, caught Laurence off guard temporarily, but he quickly recovered like Riley had. To an outward observer viewing them on a mental plane, it must have been like watching a quick fire ping pong game.

"Have a care of what you say, old friend." He said, a warning marinated in menace.

"Laurence, we both know exactly what you are doing when you retire to your cabin with her, your quarters are directly below mine and good grief, my desk was vibrating across the floor at one point! Are you sure you are being honourable in this respect, because you seem to be leaving your sense of morality and that of honour at your cabin door! She is 16 and ½ for goodness sake! You are old enough to be her father, and I have heard many, varied and surprising detailed stories about how you bedded her mother as well!"

At this vehement tirade Laurence's knuckles went white and a vein began to throb in his temple.

"You had your way with Catherine when she was only a couple of years older than Emily, and you did so unknowing of female aviators habits when it came to marriage and sexual relationships, and as I recall, _you still_ instigated that affair, not her, an affair that if she had been an ordinary gentlewoman and not an aviator you would have made her a social outcast, so therefore I warn you to choose your words more carefully before you castigate me!"

Riley went completely white then drew a deep breath, and roared "_How dare you Laurence_!"

"I do dare sir, as your entire speech stinks of wilful hypocrisy and ignorance of the facts, and you have the _balls_ to chastise me! I admire your confidence sir, that it lets you think you will get away with such a slur!"

At this, Riley looked like he was about to attack Laurence, who stood seething and red faced nose to nose with him, when the door burst open and the pressed landsmen came in holding an extremely angry but restrained Emily at gunpoint. It appeared to Laurence and Riley that she had put up quite a fight, as one man had a broken nose and was attempting to staunch the blood flow, and several had nasty bite marks.

"You're handing over control of the ship to us now sirs, or I regret to say we may have to do something to the lovely young lady who we are holding captive which we would sincerely not wish to do, namely shoot her. Surrender now." This came from the leader, a cocksure young man with a cheeky grin and, Laurence thought at random, a devil on both shoulders.

**And I am just leaving it like that because cliff hangers are**_** fun**_**. Do not despair I have the next chapter planned out and it will in all probability be up to twice the length of this one. The Devil on both shoulders is like an angel on one and a demon on the other, but both devils are egging each other on. This character will have more than a passing resemblance to Terry Pratchetts villain, Carcer.**


	8. Chapter 7: Mutiny

Laurence's first thought was how on earth a crewmember of no real rank dared interrupt the captain of the ship and a dragon captain while they were in conversation, when his brain finally caught up with what his eyeballs were telling him. Namely, this was outright mutiny, and therefore these men would be desperate and nervous, despite their leaders' apparent bravado, devil may care attitude and apparent complete lack of concern about the consequences of mutiny and so therefore would be likely to shoot at the first sudden movement. He glanced across at Riley who had a vein thumping in his temple, a sign of how frustrated and angry he was.

He wondered why they were staging the mutiny now, when they were so near to their destination, then his eyes widened in realisation and horror. These men were turncoats for the French, and were planning to sell the Allegiance, the crews and crucially, the three dragons, he realised with a mixture of rage and ice cold clarity of thought. Well, he was damned if he was going to let that happen. His pattern of thought was interrupted by the leader of the mutineers. "You two and all the other officers on board are going to the brig. I'm sure you'll have fun" this last sentence dripping with irony.

Laurence's and Riley's arms were tied behind their backs and Emily was also bound with rope. Then they were led up onto the deck, and Laurence blinked in the sunlight. Temeraire appeared to be dozing, but when he heard footsteps he cracked an eye open. A nano second later, both eyes were open and Temeraire was growling loudly, a growl which sent unpleasant shivers down peoples spines.

Iskierka got up demanding to know what the noise was, and Granby stood up with her. They took in the scene silently. Temeraire lowered his head down to the lead mutineer's level.

"Let them go. Let them go NOW!" He roared. Remarkably the mutineer leader barely moved, raising his pistol to Laurence's head. He said nothing, but the body language was plain for all to see. It said_ stay away from me, or he dies_. Temeraire retreated slowly, growling. The Lead mutineer turned to Granby. "You had better come down here chum, or your friends will die." Granby hesitated for a moment looking agonised, and Iskierka growled, then, he said, "I am truly sorry, dearest," and then walked down to the rest and was bound. Iskierka was absolutely incensed, and Laurence was reluctantly impressed by the man's courage, that he could face down two very dangerous and angry heavyweights without batting an eyelid. Iskierka glared balefully and said, "You will come to regret your actions, most likely when you are burning to ashes." This was said quietly but venomously and full of promises and threats of pain and death.

The mutineer leader merely grinned at the two dragons, and then began to rap out orders. "Jenkins, Wattley and Davies, find the other officers and imprison them. I, Johnson and Bellamy will deal with the prisoners. The rest of you scram. Now you lot" he now spoke to Laurence, Riley, Granby and Emily. "You walk nice and slowly down to the brig where you will be spending the rest of our happy voyage, to Spain, where we will meet up with the French armies. All of you will be made prisoner except possibly for the young lady." At that he leered at Emily and Laurence was tempted to rush him, not caring that he was armed.

Then they were led down the stairs to the brig, which was placed in hold. They had their bonds cut, and then they were pushed in roughly and it seemed one of the mutineers whispered something to Emily that she judged inappropriate and insulting, because she whirled and kicked him hard in the balls. One of his companions punched her in the stomach so she backed down, winded. The man she had kicked, Bellamy, Laurence thought he was called was cursing under his breath, and as he straightened up, he said, "Whore born bitch!" and staggered out. Laurence was by now balling his fists so hard his nails were drawing blood. He calmed down and sat. Emily was seething and Granby rested his hand on her arm. She calmed down and Laurence felt a flash of jealousy, but she flashed him a weak smile and he realised the jealousy was irrational.

Laurence surveyed their new surroundings. The brig was large, ironically enough, for the purpose of holding large amounts of mutineers securely. As he thought this a bitter grimace flashed across his already gloomy countenance.

"Sir?" asked the usually irrepressibly cheerful Eoin McDermott. Now however, he was as subdued as the rest of them. Every man and woman jack lost in their own private world of despair.

"Yes, Eoin? What is it?"

"What is going to happen to us?"

Laurence felt the undivided attention of the brigs occupants upon him. This he presumed was because he was the only one who had been imprisoned by the French. Then however the circumstances had been completely different, so he opted for the genuine truth.

"I don't know, Eoin. I just don't know."

At this revelation, one of the young midshipmen, only 12, began to sob. He tried to repress it, but he couldn't dam the flood, and started crying in earnest. The men around him looked uneasy, and glanced at each other, sailors and aviators alike. The unspoken harmonic was _what the hell do we do now, how do we comfort him and make him shut up_. They could chart their way across turbulent skies or stormy oceans, but didn't have the faintest idea what to do when faced with a crying child.

Emily muttered something like _'men, wouldn't know how to deal with a child unless you wrote them a book on it'_ and walked over to sit down beside the weeping boy, and proceeded to soothe him with a litany of 'there, there' and 'hush, hush' and of course, 'It will be alright'. The male prisoners watched in barely concealed fascination at this seemingly magical and incomprehensible part of the art of childcare unfolded itself. Laurence thought Emily hadn't noticed until he saw her mouth twitch at the corners in the beginnings of a smile. The boy had by now calmed himself, dried his tears and cuddled up to Emily who hugged him back, with a mock despairing smile on her face as she did so. Laurence looked at her and thought it was almost like a painting, a scene frozen in time, sweet and beautiful. Emily would make a very good mother indeed, he thought, certainly better than her own mother, though Jane would not, and did have much time for such things, which was hardly surprising given the circumstances of the time and of Emily's birth, as he saw her comfort the boy. He just hoped that she wouldn't have to become one, surrogate carer or actual mother all that soon. He had heard rumours of the sailor's sexual intentions towards Emily and none of them were honourable. They would have their way with her if they had the chance and Laurence vowed he would not to give them that chance not now, not ever, certainly not while he lived. Two of the mutineers were on guarding duties. Laurence studied, lacking anything else to do. Both were completely different, one was tall, lean and wiry, while the other was broader in the shoulders and not very tall.

They looked like hard coves, beaten to diamond hardness by the injustices and misfortunes of the world, and desperate ones as well, as the British Governments response to a mutiny on this scale would be hanging, drawing and quartering. They would be hard to beat in a fight. Laurence looked at the lock on the brig door. It was very strong, indeed as he examined the hallmark, he discovered it had been made in London, on Bond street, though wait, something about the hinges was suggesting itself to him, though he was damned if knew what...

**A/N: I am moving the date of the storming of Badajoz to July-September for the sake of the story. Also those of you familiar with Bernard Cornwell's work might be happy to know that there may be guest appearances by some of the characters from the Sharpe series. **_**Sharpe's Company**_** is invaluable if you are looking for a story along with an accurate historical account of Badajoz and the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo just before that. As for the two guards, well, no group of villains is truly complete without a little and large show.**


	9. Chapter 8: Badajoz

**A/N: Due to a personal quirk, I intend not to insert Sharpe characters into this fic, expect using Cornwell's version of Wellesley as Naomi Novik does not give much description of his personality and a relatively brief cameo by Sharpe in the opening scene of this chapter. Instead I intend to create a new fic (eventually) for the Sharpe characters. Sorry. For more on Sharpe, look him up on Wikipedia. One quote from the books, as one of Sharpe's friends observes, as regards to his attitude to women is: "I've noticed you possess a lamentable tendency to put on shining armour and look for ladies to rescue. King Arthur, God rest his soul, would have loved you." **

_June 23__rd__ 1812_

Wellesley paced up and down his tent, his blue eyes glinting dangerously. His quiescent aides watched carefully, as Wellesley's anger was feared throughout the army. He had many more aides now, some aristocratic hangers on; who hoped to gain some of the Duke's reflected glory. However to their misfortune, he was adept at identifying these types and gave them all the meaningless and irritatingly bureaucratic paperwork that he got in industrial quantities from the wretched clerks at Horse Guards.

Brigade-Major Harry Smith had once commented on Wellingtons rage, "That it felt like two spears of ice being hammered into your brain via your eyeballs."(1) The only person who did not look remotely cowed by Wellingtons pacing was Admiral Jane Roland who was coolly lighting a cigar with a tinderbox casually acquired from a mesmerized staff officer. Even now, some of them were murmuring about the unsuitability of women to command soldiers, but they stopped as they noticed the tall scarred Rifleman glaring balefully at them. The more perceptive among them remembered his reputation for being strangely chivalrous and his partner, Teresa Moreno, nicknamed La Aguja or the needle, was considered the most feared partisan in Spain, and they hushed their less wise comrades, not wanting to give Sharpe an excuse to fillet one of them.

Wellington looked up and sighed inwardly. Knowing Sharpe's mind, he thought the man had come to ask for command of the Forlorn Hope, otherwise known as the suicide squad, who were richly rewarded if they lived, which was rare. That only could mean his Captaincy had been refused. Damn all the clerks at Horseguards. "Yes Sharpe?"

Sharpe had been gazing around the room and his eyes had settled on Admiral Roland. He was not completely surprised by a woman in uniform, as he had seen Teresa fight, and she was wearing the uniform of the aerial corps and the insignia of an Admiral at that, where strange things happened. He had noted her scar and the hard set of her face and known this woman was not to be trifled with, and one who was not bothered by Wellington's rage which was odd. She had caught his gaze and nodded at him, as one professional to another. He had saluted then resumed his forbidding statue impression.

Jane examined the rifleman who was looking at her with a calculating gaze. His scar gave his face a permanently mocking expression and he looked as hard and immovable as granite. She knew him by reputation only, as the man who had taken a French eagle at Talavera and had risen from the ranks, after saving Wellington's life at Assaye in India. She vaguely recalled Granby's excited description of how he had seen from Laetificat's back Sir Arthur Wellesley (as he was then) fall from his piked horse into the waiting arms of the Mahratta soldiers. Then he had seen a red coat kick Wellesley under a cannon and fight like a demon, slashing his way through enemy after enemy. Proof then, that the Army was not completely useless she thought, that it had promoted such a man. He no longer wore red, but wore the green jacket of the renowned 95th rifle regiment and the overalls of a French Chasseur colonel, along with boots to match. She nodded to him and he saluted smartly, then he resumed his impression of a statue. She thought she heard stories of his lady being a partisan leader who made it a mission to kill all Frenchmen she met as revenge for her mother's rape and murder by French forces. They must make a good match, she thought wryly. Then Wellington stopped pacing and turned to Sharpe.

"Yes, Captain?" he queried sharply, irritation at the interruption evident in his voice.

"I would like to command the Forlorn Hope sir."

Jane raised her eyebrows. The Forlorn Hope was only for those who were both incredibly brave and the tired of life. Why would Sharpe want the Hope? His record spoke for itself, his bravery in no doubt. He didn't seem tired of life.

"Why? No wait, don't tell, me the damn gazette hasn't come through. Damn it Sharpe, we'll be handing out captaincies with the rations after we take the city. No Sharpe, you don't need it, and the army would be far more boring for your passing. Good day."

Sharpe's face went wooden. He saluted and marched out.

Jane sighed and wondered when the idiot politicians and bureaucrats would desist meddling in things they did not understand, despite their pretentions to the contrary. Also, now she came to think of it, all the reports she had had about him created a figure that was as rigidly chivalrous as Laurence in his approach to women. That, their size and a shared habit of being disliked by most of the politicians in England; however that was where the similarity ended, she thought. Laurence was what the aristocracy called civilised. Sharpe was anything but, and Laurence would never dare be impudent with the Peer, whereas for Sharpe it appeared to be a pastime.

_(1) Not a genuine quote as far as I know, though his character would probably engender similar comments._

Later on, Wellesley walked through the camp, towards Jane's tent, musing on the army's inability to promote someone who actually had a chin and could fight. After a while he noticed a bubble of silence had developed around him, with men scrambling to their feet to salute him, and then watching as he went past, like owls who have seen an eagle flying at night. Indeed his hooked and rather aquiline nose gave him an eagle like countenance which did not pass unnoticed among the rankers, who called him nosey, but not to his face. He arrived in the aviators section of the camp, where the aviators and their dragons stared at him with almost tangible curiosity, which he discouraged with a few sharp looks, but they merely resumed their staring when they thought he couldn't see them. This both amused and irritated him in equal measure, and resigned himself to the fact that they would stare at him until either he disappeared or something more interesting turned up. He shook his head and walked into Jane's tent. The more observant and dirty minded aviators noted he had an erection, and started sniggering. Speech issued from the tent, mostly concerning military matters and Captain Sharpe. The merriment spread, and when the talking stopped and groans of pleasure began to issue from the tent, they burst into full blown roars of laughter. They increased even further when Wellington poked his face, bright red with embarrassment and exertion, around the tent flap and roared "shut up!" at the top of his voice. The laughter subsided to helpless giggling, then some of the more mischievous ensigns set up some lamps so the tent would work like a projector screen, with the occupants of the tents shadows being projected through the tent, then ran for their lives. The laughter reached new heights, with some of the dragons joining in, most being quelled by a stare from the newly awakened Excidium, who merely raised his eyebrows (or the closest thing) and went back to sleep. Wellington looked out of the tent and a deadly hush fell. He retreated, having not noticed the lights and the laughter began again. One young runner tugged his captain's sleeve and enquired as to why everyone was laughing. The man smiled benevolently at him, and said, "You'll understand in a couple of years." The runner pondered this for a minute, then piped up, all innocence and earnest curiosity, "Is the General screwing Admiral Roland then?" His captains smile froze. The laughter reached yet greater heights when the runners question was passed on. Later, when Wellington left out, the entire aviator section of the camp was pretending to be asleep. Then, when he had gone, a chuckle began and spread. Again.

**A/N: It is strongly suspected that Wellington had an unhappy marriage, making an affair with Jane all the more plausible.**


	10. Chapter 9:Prison and Revelations

Laurence started awake. He glanced up at the staircase and noted the moonlight streaming down it, and the moon had risen fully, so he guessed it was the middle of the night. He looked around the brig, searching for the source of the noise that had startled him rudely into wakefulness. The only immediately noticeable noise was Granby snoring which was like a log being sawn in half with a bread knife, a sound that had not been tamed by a sleeping companion, thus it went through the ears of an uninitiated like a hot knife through butter. High speed evolution had come to the aid of the afflicted, who rapidly evolved stronger eardrums and an ability to tune the horrible sound out. Laurence sighed inwardly and guessed it was the rats that had infested absolutely every single ship Laurence had sailed on, and often formed a vaguely palatable substitute to ships biscuit and the salted meat that was by this point more like leather, than anything even vaguely considered edible, even if the partaking thereof meant a battle with the ships cat for meals. He decided that now he was awake he might as well find out how to escape this prison. Then the mutineer on guard duty caught his eye. In the light from the oil lamps he saw the mutineer was very young, without even the wisps of a beard, little more than a boy. He decided to see just how strong or weak the boys' conviction in his cause was, to test if he was a weak link that could be exploited.

Laurence walked across to the bars of the cell, and called out, "Hello?" The boy jumped as if he had been struck by lightning, raising his musket to his shoulder, then relaxed. Laurence noted it hadn't been loaded in the first place, since it was considered the height of stupidity to carry loaded firearms around, especially on a ship, where one spark could burn a three deck first rate to the waterline in minutes. The boy stared fearfully at Laurence, clearly spooked that one of his prisoners had decided he wanted a chat, though his fear was mixed with a fair portion of defiance.

While Laurence was sizing him up, the boy, mutineer Hart, was staring at his prisoner. He knew vaguely who he was, Captain William Laurence, the man who took the dragon cure to the French, who was currently smiling benevolently at him, and who asked him, "What is your name young man?"

"Hart sir, Seaman James Hart."

"Why did you mutiny James?"

Laurence watched as during the next half an hour, the moon rose further and his kind questioning gently opened up the previously reticent youngster, who said hesitantly "I was told I would become rich, so I could look after my mum."

Laurence inwardly allowed himself a bitter smile. That Britain's greatest recruitment tactic, greed, used by mutineers was a great irony indeed. He then questioned James about his family, listening sympathetically, as the boy listed the all too common woes of the working class, father dead, mother ill and battered after a lifetime of back breaking work raising James and his brothers, John and Harry, and mourning her daughter Mary, dead of cholera. When he asked James if he thought his mother would approve of her son becoming a criminal, the boys face crumpled and he collapsed onto the stool brought by the previous guards and began to cry softly. Haltingly, the story of his recruitment to the mutineers tumbled out. It turned out that the mutineers had cornered him below deck one night and their leader had offered James riches, riches beyond his wildest dreams, threatened to kill James if he didn't join them.

At this, James began to cry in earnest, and Laurence thought it prudent to ask one further question, which was, "what is your leader's name?"

James looked up, his eyes glistening with tears, whispered, "I don't know, sir, nobody knows."

Laurence smiled as he heard the "sir", looked into the boy's eyes, and said sincerely and gently, "Thank you James, you have done your country a great service by telling me this."

James smiled weakly, and whispered, "Thank you sir." Then he added anxiously, almost as an afterthought, "If I die, will you tell me mum that I love her?"

Laurence smile vanished, as he thought of his own mother, how she would grieve if he died, how his brothers would feel, would they be sad, would they cry over his tombstone? What would his nephews think, who to their fathers disapproval, absolutely idolised him, according to his mother in her last letter, and the reason why was explained when she alluded to a visit by Jane Roland and Berkeley, and a separate visit by Wilberforce who had become a firm supporter of dragon rights after visiting several of the coverts, and apparently had been quite ill according Lady Allendale:

'_Mr_ _Wilberforce looked very unwell on his last visit, which was to see if he could count on George's support as Lord Allendale in the next session of parliament. George said yes, of course, but he was not best pleased when Mr Wilberforce told the tale of your escapade in France to the boys, so they now wholeheartedly support you, and lustily resist any attempt to change their thinking on the matter. Admiral Roland came to visit, and I have to say the boys seem to be in awe of her, as they had not realised women could be aviators, and Harry, George's youngest is only 5, asked his mother why she wasn't an aviator that night, and also another of your colleagues visited, Captain Berkeley, who they were most taken with, and you had not told me how big his dragon was, why he made Temeraire look positively small!'_

"Sir?" James asked, fearing he had said something wrong, though he couldn't for the life of him work out what it might have been.

Laurence wrenched himself back to reality, looked up, smiled kindly and said, "Of course I will James, of course I will."

James nodded, reassured, and said, "Thank you sir." Laurence nodded and went back to his place beside Emily. She mumbled and put her head on his lap. He teased his fingers softly though her sandy-blonde hair and smiled. She looked so beautiful in the moonlight, and while he was thinking that, she woke up, saw him and mumbled, "Laurence?"

Laurence said, "I am so sorry I woke you up dear, just go back to sleep."

Emily shook her head, and said, "Laurence, I'm pregnant. I just thought you should know, night -night." And with that, she went back to sleep, leaving Laurence stunned and lost for words.

**And that ends this very much overdue chapter, so thank you for keeping faith with me while I dealt with my short(ish) episode of writers block.**


	11. Chapter 11: Revenge, Laurence style

**WARNING! ****This chapter is much darker than those prior to it at points, with most chapters being K+ or T for innuendo, but this is a definite T for violence in the middle. So, please enjoy my longest chapter yet.**

The next morning the little and large pair of guards dragged Laurence out for questioning by their leader. Laurence's mind was in turmoil as he was roughly escorted upstairs, the two mutineers wasting no opportunity to get even in the eternal class war, with many snide punches and kicks. As he came on deck, Laurence went white with anger. Temeraire, Iskierka and Leo were all chained to the deck, and as he watched, Leo squirmed uncomfortably and one of the mutineers set about with the cat o' nine tails with obvious malicious relish as Leo cowered. At that moment, Laurence vowed he was going to see these utterly evil men destroyed if it was the last thing he did. Then he thought wryly, at least if I die soon I won't have to tell Jane I got her daughter pregnant. Still, if I survive this I can have the highly dubious pleasure of meeting Wellington again, joy of joys. He'll probably tear a strip off me for being late. His gaze shifted to Temeraire, who at once managed to look both utterly furious and dejected at the current situation. He held Laurence's gaze for a moment, and then his head drooped again. The two guards pulled him onwards, towards what had once been Riley's cabin. When he entered, his guards threw him to the floor, and then stood back. Laurence looked up at the man who had masterminded the mutiny. Oddly, he was trying to stroke the ships cat in a mysterious manner, the cat in question being a young male tabby picked up from the Sydney docks, little more than a kitten and an exceedingly bold creature, who had once swatted Iskierka's nose when she got a little too inquisitive, and was currently squirming for all he was worth. As Laurence watched the strange spectacle, the mutineer hit the cat on its tail with his pistol, whereupon the cat let out a strangled yowl and mauled him briefly then streaked out the still open door, one of the guards taking pot shot with is pistol as it raced past. By this time Laurence was holding back a few sniggers of laughter, though he sobered up hurriedly when he caught the enraged look on the lead mutineers face as he dabbed at the scratches on it with a piece of cloth. Laughing would have dire consequences indeed.

The mutineer looked down at Laurence and said, "My name is Storm." Laurence was unable to resist a raised eyebrow at this and got kicked in the small of his back for his temerity to mock the mutineer. He doubted it was the man's real name, but he was thinking carefully. Did the man fear his birth name could be used against him by either the law or those who operated outside of it, as he had been a pressed landsman, and his voice had a special tinge of the accent that indicated a youth in the darker parts of the east end of London, so maybe a wanted criminal. While Laurence had been mulling this over, he was dimly aware that 'Storm' was speaking.

"What?" he queried, and was promptly thumped by his larger guard after a nod from Storm.

"As I was saying, I don't appreciate you spreading sedition among my supporters," Laurence tensed and felt a trickle of sweat flow down his spine. "So I am giving you a warning. If you try to curry favour among my fellow mutineers, your young lady friend will be _my _lady friend for a short time, then dead."

Laurence nodded his acceptance, seemingly totally docile, then leapt without warning at the man who called himself Storm, catching him unawares with a powerful upper cut to the jaw fuelled by pent up rage and a judiciously applied elbow to the gut, winding him, then grabbed the man's pistol and sword from, which Laurence noted with a surge of anger was _his_ sword, and turned, inadvertently skewering the smaller of his guards who had come charging to his leaders rescue, and raised the pistol, holding it by the barrel, then sidestepping the enormous but rather clumsy haymaker from the larger guard then clubbing him hard in the temple with pistol, knocking him out and finally disposing of him with the loaded pistol.

Laurence turned back to the first of his victims, and as he was retrieving his sword he saw Storm move out of the corner of his eye, and reacted sharply, but not sharply enough to completely dodge the chair wielded by the mutineer, who grunted and raised his impromptu weapon once more, swinging it across towards Laurence's midriff, forcing Laurence to duck and roll, ending up behind his opponent and holding his sword to Storm's throat.

"A short drop and a sudden stop await you on the Tyburn gallows, mutineer." He spat.

Even when confronted with a grisly future, the mutineer managed a taunt. "How many lives have been lost because of your treachery? And how long have you been watching that young lady of yours, because I would wager she is no more than 16, and people of my social class despise men who look at little girls, if you see what I'm getting at." Laurence went ice white with fury and lost all control as the man laughed in his face, and proceeded to beat him with his fists, feet and other bony members of his anatomy. Yet the man stilled laughed, even when Laurence smashed his head against the desk. As Laurence regained control, it was apparent to him that the man had only a marginal grip on sanity. He dragged the still softly giggling man by the scruff of the neck up onto the deck and pulled out the man's pistol which he had taken the precaution of reloading, and took in the scene on deck and blanched with complete and utter primeval anger. The brute who had been wielding the cat o' nine tails had drawn a knife, with which he was cutting the tendrils on Temeraire's face. He aimed the pistol and fired in one smooth motion, blowing the man's head off. The look of pain and helpless anger that had been on Temeraire's face had almost been enough to break Laurence's heart, as it was now replaced with hope and happiness as Laurence disconnected the chains on all of the dragons, with Iskierka indignantly asking "Where's my Granby?"

Laurence was by now petting Temeraire gently, having tied the softly giggling Storm up in some of the chains used to bind the dragons, and softly saying over and over, "What have they done to you my dear?"

As he heard Iskierka's demanding tones he said, "He's in the brig, I'm just off to open it." And with that he ran below decks to the brig, nutting **(1)** the unfortunate guard and grabbing the bench he had been sitting on, and dug the feet of the desk in the bars of the cage door, levering it off the hinges. Everyone in the brig looked astounded with their mouths open except for McDermott who looked like a rather evil idea had occurred to him as his eyes twinkled, flicking from Emily to Laurence and back again. After a long moment he said "Sir, ye do know that you could have used the keys?"

Soon order was restored to the _Allegiance_ and a special dinner cum party was held in Laurence's honour, at which he accepted the thanks and congratulations true to form with modesty and a blush, particularly when Emily winked lasciviously at him across the table. His libido was doing back flips for joy as was his stomach.

As the dinner cum party drew to an end with a mildly pissed McDermott teaching the sailors _that_ song, this time in English, Emily drew him aside for a passionate kiss. However as he surfaced to breathe, he wrested back control of his senses which had been blurring in a happy fog which owed more to Love and Lust than alcohol which was being consumed in copious quantities all around them he said "Emily, we need to talk about your pregnancy in private." McDermott pausing briefly in his enthusiastic conducting heard only the words 'in private' and let out a drunken cheer, which was greeted by Emily raising the old fashioned two fingered salute which lost none of its meaning with the passing of the centuries.

_A few minutes later_

Sitting in his cabin on the bed opposite Emily, Laurence was very pale and stared grimly at Emily, who smiled back in a seraphic manner. "Did you know this was going to happen Emily?" he asked abruptly. "Maybe." She replied innocently andn completely circumspectly.

At this, Laurence exploded. "God damn it Emily, you're having a child, _my _child, so I would be greatly obliged if you could tell me if you knew this was going to happen!"

At this Emily cocked her head and stuck her bottom lip out at him. Laurence, having seen this ploy used many times before, merely raised an eyebrow. Emily de-cocked her head, pulled in her bottom lip and raised both her eyebrows in reply. Laurence perceptibly pulled himself together and finally asked heavily, "Why? This is not a game Emily; I just want to know why. Didn't you consider what your mother might think? About my mother? What would she think?"

Emily grinned, and said, "Wasn't it your mother who was trying to get you to give her some grandchildren a few years ago?"

Laurence glared half heartedly at her and realised this was one battle he wasn't going to win. She gave him a look that said, _I know you aren't_. He mused that if a sufficiently strong willed woman put her mind to it, she could get anything she wanted.

Emily half smiled and raised her eyebrows again and twisted the verbal thumbscrew even further, "and Mother is hardly one who could criticize."

Laurence conceded the point. Jane Roland wasn't exactly a paragon of chastity, though he would never hear a word spoken against her without the speaker shortly afterwards ending up with a face full of fist and lacking their essentials, which would probably thereafter be returned to them in a bag. Laurence had learned long ago that chivalry and honour counted for little in fights which involved people who knew nothing of the laws of chivalry, only how to stick the pointy bit of weapon into their opponent very hard and where it really,_ really hurts_.

He tried a different tack. "Have you thought this through Emily?" he asked in measured calm tones.

"No" was the simple and innocently toned answer.

He groaned, outmanoeuvred again. This was going to be...interesting.

**(1)**** short footnote. Nutting for those who do not know is a powerful head butt delivered usually to the opponents face. Kids! Do NOT try this at home!**

**N.B: **_**That**_** song is indeed the one McDermott was singing earlier when Laurence first kissed Emily.**


	12. Chapter 12: At Badajoz

**A/N: ****This was written after an excessively long period of writers block, some being writeen before and most after so if it isn't as good as it should be, that is why.**

_July 1__st__ 1812_

Wellesley sat in his tent waiting. His intelligence report from his exploring officers * on the progress of the _Allegiance_ should have arrived by now. He glanced at the earlier report, which was short and to the point, as well as somewhat illegible, having been scrawled on horseback.

It said: _"Allegiance sailing up the Guadiana. Should be within easy flying distance on July 3__rd__, therefore Temeraire, Iskierka and Leo arriving on July 4__th__. Ship was delayed by sudden mutiny, which was brought to a satisfactory conclusion by the gallant, meritorious and extremely violent actions of Captain Laurence. Sustained minor long range cannon fire from French gunboats, so put into Oporto for repairs."_

Other reports mentioned that Laurence had attacked three mutineers at once and beaten them easily. He certainly seemed to be acting like a textbook hero, mused Wellesley. The only razorblade in the metaphorical candyfloss, was that he was not sure how Laurence would react to his bedding of Jane Roland. In matters of the heart the man was most certainly unpredictable. He had heard the aviators were running a book as to what Laurence would do.

At the moment it was 9/2 that Laurence would challenge the General to a duel. Wellesley sighed and rubbed his eyes. That fence would have to be jumped when he came to it. Meanwhile he had to deal with the usual letters from England demanding to know why the army wasn't apparently doing anything. And then there was the dreaded correspondence from his wife. He put his head in his hands and nearly wept. When he had been young and foolish, he had been certain he had loved his wife.

Now? He wasn't sure if he was honest with himself. He may not love her but he would not subject her to the pain and ignominy of a widely known affair. His sense of honour and decency precluded it. He audibly pulled himself together with a great effort. His staff officers would soon be arriving to discuss strategy and Jane as Admiral of the Air. There were rumours of a peerage and a seat in the House of Lords. While many complained to Wellesley that such an idea was unnatural and highly reprehensible as was the fact of her command of the Aerial Corps, they died in the face of a diamond blue piercing glare.

The protestor's wives gossiped about purported relations between the Commander of the allied forces in the peninsula and his Air Admiral in London society. To paraphrase, the devil makes much work for idle tongues. They were correct, though little did they know it, and greatly did they suspect it deep in their tiny and very well bred minds. Jane's appointment as Admiral of the Air and then as supreme air commander of the allied forces in the peninsula had caused severe controversy in London, though it was partly smoothed over by Wilberforce in parliament, who had become a wholehearted supporter of hers after a meeting to discuss the political side of the combined campaigns for slave emancipation and dragon rights, and among the more older and thus congealed-in-their-ways Spanish commanders, though most had at least grudgingly and sullenly accepted her appointment on the grounds of the exigencies of warfare, particularly after they were reminded subtly of the fact that the female partisans had proved that not only could women fight, they could often do it better than or as well as the men, and the partisans in general had proved to be more effective than the Spanish generals themselves. Wellesley had internally shrugged when he heard this. Frankly he didn't care how or why they rationalised her command, as long as they accepted it and shut up. Jane. She was almost temptation personified when she wished to be, though that was not often. She wasn't classically beautiful, but she had a sort of animal magnetism that made most men turn for a 2nd or 3rd look. She had a curvy figure and wiry muscles like steel. And, he thought with a slightly zoned out smile, she was _very _flexible.

He struggled out of his happy reverie to when one of his staff officers, Jenkins cleared his throat. Twice.

"Yes, Jenkins?"

"The commanders are here to see you sir."

"Send them in then." Inwardly he sighed. He hoped Jane would be willing later or he might have to resort to a habit that he had not had to stoop to since his first sexual experience and was nowhere near as good as the real thing. He composed himself, a zoned out smile and evident signs of sexual tension, were considered not good for putting subordinates at their ease.

The many and varied allied commanders trooped in and settled themselves around the tent.

Wellesley stared around the room, every inch the arrogant and clever General. Now gentlemen, Lady, report. What are the capabilities of your troops? Are there any issues with equipment and supplies or indeed any issues at all? There was a simultaneous shaking of heads, and 'No senor's around the tent. Except for one. Colonel John Featherington, an over promoted young man who had opposed Jane's appointment and resented the fact that a mere woman outranked him. Currently he was turning purple, like some sort of strange toad, albeit a strange toad in excessive amounts of gold brocade and blond handlebar moustaches. Wellesley watched him with a sort of detached interest, wondering what shit-for-brains (Jane's derogatory nickname for him) would do next.

"Sir. Permission to voice once more my views on the presence of _Admiral_ Roland?" He sneered.

"Denied. I have no wish to hear your latest tirade on the place of women, as I was having a good day and I do not wish you to spoil it." Wellesley said briskly as Featherington went red and the assembled commanders chuckled quietly, the Spanish a moment after everyone else as they had to have it translated. Jane sat calmly in her chair, smirking, mostly for Featherington's benefit, as he was seated opposite her. Having spent 4 years working alongside some frankly chauvinistic men, she had learned to moderate her emotions and impulses, especially if the impulse was to strangle which ever little berk had just insulted her or the Aerial Corps.

"I once heard that women hold up half of the sky, colonel, a maxim upon which you should reflect, and try and understand." Wellesley continued in a business-like manner.

"Now gentleman, lady, to business."

*Exploring Officers were British officers who rode in full uniform (so as not to be executed as spies in the event of capture) behind enemy lines to gather information. Their horses tended to be very good and very fast and also well fed to enable a quick getaway. In this case they are merely fetching information from long distances as opposed to actively spying. The fast horses being used to avoid occasional rogue partisans, bandits, long range French patrols etcetera.


End file.
